


Insignis

by Purna



Category: Donald Strachey - Stevenson
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-25
Updated: 2009-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purna/pseuds/Purna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timothy Callahan and hidden depths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insignis

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on the nick_n_nora LJ comm and uses movie canon.

_Of course Bailey has to call right in the middle of something_, Donald thought in exasperation as he glanced at his phone.  He snapped another few shots of Cecelia Page in a towel and _flagrente delicto_ as she lingered in the open doorway of her hotel room.  She was getting a tonsil-hockey kiss from a burly man in a tennis outfit who was definitely not Mr. Page. 

"I don't think she's been working on her backhand," he said to the phone.  He let it go for another two rings and then lowered the Nikon, setting it carefully on the passenger seat before he flipped open the phone.

"Kinda busy here," he snapped, his eyes on the happy couple, who were getting hot and heavy again.  It looked like Mrs. Page was up for round two, and burly man seemed inclined to oblige. 

Another productive day at the airport Econo Lodge.  Maybe cheating couples liked to imagine themselves flying off somewhere together.  And maybe it was just cheap and out of the way.

"The naughty pictures can wait, Strachey."  Bailey's voice sounded even gruffer than normal.

"Adultery pays the bills, Bub."  Donald cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder and reached for the Nikon again.  Cecelia's towel was about to lose its life for the cause; a shot of burly man's right hand sliding beneath hotel terrycloth was too good to miss.

"It's Callahan," Bailey said, and Donald managed to drop the phone _and_ the Nikon.

"Shit, shit, shit."  He scrabbled around for the phone on the Toyota's filthy floor.  "What about Timothy?  What's wrong?"

"He's not hurt, Strachey," Bailey said instantly, reminding Donald once again that for a cop, he was a pretty all right kind of guy.  "Just, ah, arrested." 

Donald was silent, speechless until Bailey prodded, "Strachey, you there?"

"Arrested?  What the hell for?  Bailey, so help me--"

Bailey cut him off.  "Assault, apparently."  The patent disbelief in Bailey's voice might have been a little insulting if Donald hadn't shared it.  "I got him pulled out of the holding cells.  He's outside my office, cuffed, of course." 

Bailey sounded a little guilty, maybe for leaving Timmy in cuffs.  Or probably embarrassed by his own generosity, Donald corrected himself.  Bailey was one of those rare birds, a detective who wasn't completely cynical about police work.  He hated favoritism on the job.

"I'm coming down there," Donald said, viciously grinding the Toyota's starter. 

"Good.  Yes, I know.  I know."  Bailey's voice had gone muffled, obviously talking to someone on his end.  "Look, I gotta go, Strachey.  Things are crazy here."

Donald closed the phone, tossing it aside as he pulled out onto Wolf Road, tires squealing. 

He made it downtown in record time and charged into the station.  Someone blocked his path to Bailey's office--Detective Bowman, his big, homophobic mouth flapping as usual.  Donald bodily shouldered him aside, ignoring the snarl that Bowman threw his way.

Timmy was sitting on the uncomfortable wooden bench outside Bailey's office, his back straight, posture razor sharp.  He was dressed for work, dark suit with a crisp white shirt and silk tie.  The handcuffs that circled his wrists seemed jarringly incongruous against the buttoned-down Brooks Brothers look.  His hands were steepled in front of him, fingers laced together, almost like he was praying. 

Someone who didn't know him might have interpreted his perfect stillness as calm, but Donald wasn't fooled.  Timmy was absolutely furious about something.

"Jesus, Timothy," Donald said as he moved closer and got a better look at his partner.  He reached towards Timmy's face, which was marred by missing glasses and a left eye that was swollen shut by a huge shiner.  The resulting flinch diverted Donald's grip to Timmy's shoulders.  "I thought you had a photo op today."

Timmy's head snapped up, his eyes widening like a startled horse.  He lifted one hand, the other tugged along sharply by the steel links connecting the cuffs.  His palms slid comfortingly over Donald's midsection, and Donald felt something dangerous uncoil in his gut.

"Donald."  Timmy's breath came out in a relieved sigh.  "Donald, thank God.  Yes, we...Senator Glassman was visiting the VA hospital today."

"Okay," Donald said, pretty patiently he thought.  "And that turned into assault how?"

Timmy's face scrunched up in disgust.  "There were...these protestors."

Donald frowned in confusion, but any more questions were cut short by Bailey's voice.  "Callahan's free to go.  Nutjobs dropped the charges.  Apparently, your senator read 'em the riot act.  Told them they wouldn't get much sympathy after rousting a bunch of injured veterans."

"Protestors?" Donald said through clenched teeth.  Timmy was hurt, had been arrested for _assault_ of all things, and he didn't know why.  His brain kept tripping up on that.  The thought of Timmy hurting a fly, much less a person, was just wrong, wrong, wrong.  He was past confused and starting to get pissed. 

"You mind?"  Bailey was staring pointedly at him, holding up his handcuff key. 

Donald stepped back so that Bailey could unlock Timmy's cuffs.  He watched Timmy rub his chafed wrists, and then continued, "Rousting veterans?  Bailey, what the hell went on out there?" 

Bailey sighed, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly.  "Ever heard of a group calling itself _God Hates Fags_?  Bunch of religious nuts out of Kansas, apparently."

Timmy's face had gone white, and Donald moved in close beside him.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he said.  He put his hand on the nape of Timmy's neck, letting his thumb move back and forth in a subtle caress. 

"I wish I were."  Bailey's expression looked stiff, a little disgusted.  "They were lined up outside the hospital, just in time for the senator's visit.  Yelling stuff about soldiers who defend fags deserving to be hurt and crippled." 

Donald opened his mouth but nothing came out.  He rubbed his chin, scratching at his stubble.  "That's...crazy."

Bailey shrugged.  "Yeah, doesn't make any sense to me, either.  Your friend here kneed one of them in the balls.  Can't say I blame him much."

Timmy ducked his head and managed to look mortified and proud at the same time.  Donald stared at him, trying to integrate this new wrinkle into the partner he'd always thought he knew so well. 

"Tim has a keen sense of moral outrage," he said finally.  "He just needs to learn to duck," he added, gesturing at Timmy's shiner.

Timmy cleared his throat, crossing his arms across his chest.  "I'd really like to leave now, Donald," he said, a little too carefully.

"Okay, sweetheart," he said, ignoring the vaguely constipated look that flickered over Bailey's face at the endearment.  "We need to get some ice on that eye anyway."

Timmy was quiet all during the ride home.  Donald kept darting worried glances over at the expression on his partner's face.  Timmy looked brittle and still angry, almost a stranger with the lack of glasses and the bruising.

"Timmy?"  It came out soft and gentle when they were stopped at a light. 

"Let's talk when we get home," Timmy said, his good eye closed.

It wasn't until they'd gotten him undressed and installed on the couch, Watson at his feet and an icepack on his eye, that Timmy finally spoke.

"They were evil.  Evil people hiding behind an angry, homophobic version of God that has no place in my pantheon." 

Donald could hear the offended shock in Timmy's voice and suppressed a smile.  Timmy's spiritual core had never really left him.  It had survived his coming out and leaving the seminary.  It had endured the disillusionment of the Bishop McFee scandal.  It'd weather this storm, too.

Timmy's good eye cracked open, his stare pinning Donald in place.  "The things they said," he whispered, so softly that Donald had to lean close to catch the words.  "Awful things.  Evil things."

"I'm sorry."  Donald squeezed onto the couch, resting his hand on Timmy's bare leg.  He moved his palm, ruffling Timmy's thigh hair against the grain.

"The patients could hear everything.  Out of anyone, they deserve peace and quiet, and these _monsters_ are screaming at them.  'God hates you,' and fag this and fag that, and 'die, you fag-lovers.'  I tried not to listen, but I couldn't help it.  I don't think I've ever seen hatred like that, Donald.  It was...terrifying.  And, and, I couldn't stop thinking, it could've been you in there, having to listen to that.  It could've been you."  Timmy's voice broke on the last word, and his arms wound tightly around Donald's chest, the embrace so tight it hurt. 

"Shh, shh," Donald soothed.  "I'm fine, baby, I'm fine.  I'm right here."  He leaned over to kiss Timmy's forehead, absorbing the shudders that rocked them both. 

It was easy to forget sometimes, how deeply Timmy took things to heart.  His gentle smile and adorably awkward manner were in no way the sum of him.  The preppy fussiness covered hidden depths.  He might have accepted shades of gray between absolute right and wrong, but evil wasn't just a metaphor for Tim Callahan.

In this case, Donald found himself agreeing. 

The shudders were easing finally.  Timmy reached up to trace the edge of his swollen eye with his fingertips, grimacing when Donald gently tugged his hand away.  "Don't mess with it, Timmy."

"God doesn't hate us," Timmy blurted. 

Donald lifted Timmy's hand to kiss the inside of his wrist.  "Of course not.  God loves you.  _I_ love you. You know that, right?  Especially when you knee assholes like that in the balls."

Timmy sighed.  "My eye hurts."

"Let's go to bed.  I'll get you some advil and a new icepack."

"And a martini?" Timmy asked hopefully.

"Definitely a martini.  And maybe."  Donald gently tilted Tim's face to a good angle, leaning in for a kiss.  "If you're up for it."  He stifled a snort at the pun and then bent down, licking at the stubbled skin of Tim's neck.  He said softly, right into Tim's ear, "I'll even blow you."

Timmy pulled him down into a kiss, deep and soft and wet, and who'd ever guess that his preppy boyfriend could kiss like that. 

"I do like the way you think, Donald Strachey," Timmy said breathlessly.  "I think I'll keep you around."


End file.
